Wheeling Around San Francisco

Let me set the scene: I’m in San Francisco the city by the bay--the hilly city by the bay—where Tony Bennett left his heart and where others, like me, left their shoe soles. I’m here with my mother for a holiday. My mom has walking and balance issues so she can’t walk far or easily. A reality I had forgotten until we took the not-so-long walk through the lobby and down the corridor to our hotel room. We did reach our room, but only after several rest stops. Afterwards, however, the idea of taking that walk again so horrified Mom that we were facing the very real possibility of spending our holiday in the hotel room. We called down to the concierge to find a wheel chair. (Yes, I know I should have thought of this earlier, but dang, I forget from visit to visit exactly how much is too much walking.) Anyway… The San Francisco winter weather is treating us just fine. While everywhere else in the country is facing record cold temps, ice storms, snow, wind, San Francisco is blissfully sunny, clear-skied and warm—about 70—glorious. Mom and I have walked everywhere—rather she rides and I push. Pushing a wheel chair has opened my eyes to some realities. For one, it is almost impossible to differentiate between crazies who are talking to invisible friends and the so called normal people talking on cell phones. What’s more: chivalry is dead, opening doors is passé, inviting a woman, or women and a wheelchair go first is a lost courtesy; and something about being in a group or on the phone (which is the same as being in a group) makes people oblivious to everyone around them: they congregate in the middle of sidewalks; block wheel ramps at curbs; reverse without making warning beeping sounds; stop suddenly—don’t you think pedestrians should use traffic hand signals?

Mom and I have a list of must dos which includes riding a cable car. As it happens, we stopped for lunch at the Buena Vista, which is across from the cable car turn around. Mom was worried about riding the cable cars, afraid they wouldn’t let her on with the wheel chair. Not only did they let her on, the cable car operator hoisted the wheelchair onto the cable car for us and led mom to a nice seat, all the while telling her to take her time, that we weren’t in a rush. At our stop, Powell Street, he said, “don’t worry about the chair, just take care of your Mom…take care of Mommy.” At the curb, a homeless guy set down his cup so he could set the wheelchair brakes, pull out the seat, and arrange Mom’s feet on the pedals. His thanks were smiles and goodbyes. I didn’t even think to tip him and he didn’t act like he expected one.

Often when we walk, we are met with smiles and pleasantries as people step aside and make way for us. Often we read the puzzlement on those same faces as they try to figure out why mom is in the wheelchair. Other wheelchair riders check us out, too. One guy put his hand out to slap five as he cruised past.

Last night we went to a show called Beach Blanket Babylon which was a delightful spoof on current affairs and great fun. It has been running continuously for over 30 years—hopefully it will run for 30 or more more. Afterwards, we walked up to a busy corner to flag down a cab. Almost immediately a cab pulled to the curb. As I stooped to set the brakes on Mom’s wheelchair, an older man with his wife and daughter jumped inside. “That’s our cab!” I called. The man’s wife looked at me. The man closed the door. The cab driver shrugged. The light changed and the cab was stuck there, waiting, while we glared at them. (Mom is a champion glarer.) I could see that the cabbie was telling the man that he had been waiting for us. I am sure Mom’s glare will stick with them—it should. Fifteen or so minutes later, I was still standing in the street with my arm up, mom sat beside me in her chair, when another couple stopped beside us. The woman walked farther out into the street and began waving. She knew we were there. She knew it was our spot. But she figured she could out jump us to the cab. She didn’t know me: I moved out in front of her. She didn’t know mom, either. As the cab pulled up, Mom pushed forward in her chair arms flapping, lunged—she was inside, sitting down, giving the woman a “cheaters never prosper” look before I even had the chair folded up.

Today, I pushed Mom up Grants Avenue to Chinatown. (Sounded like a great idea at the time.) Turns out the Arches welcoming visitors into Chinatown really are up, up, up. At one point I was pushing the wheelchair with all my might and my body was almost parallel with the ground. I was practically kissing the pavement, was definitely eyeing it. Mom sat clutching the handles of the wheelchair and making small gasping sounds.

We finally reached a summit where I tried to act cool while gulping in air. Fortunately only a few blocks farther up and on a flat stretch we found the Chinese Emporium/Bazaar Mom’s friends had suggest she visit to buy bugs encapsulated in resin and made into bracelets (don’t ask). The way back down the hill, as downhills do, looked even more steep and treacherous. I swung Mom’s chair around so she was facing uphill while I walked backwards downhill with my back against the back of the chair. Leaning back hard on the chair, I baby stepped down, all the while praying I didn’t lose my footing.

I’ve had time to consider wheelchairs during all of these ups and downs. Next go around I want the kind with handbrakes, not just the wheel lock levers. (I need more control)…and while electric chairs don’t work for Mom (there is a reason she doesn’t drive a car) I would like a remote control, shock absorbers too, and a basket.

Part way back down Chinatown hill, Mom asked to stop for postcards. So, when we spotted a 7-postcards-for-a-dollar stall I stopped. I set the brakes and turned the wheels toward the building. Just to be sure, I stayed on the downhill side and leaned forward, over Mom’s head, to pick cards so she could make her selections. Several people were heading up and down the sidewalk. Our being on the sidewalk didn’t seem to bother them. They all managed to walk around us, even though it meant moving to the curb to get around a signpost, too. We were choosing card 4 of 7 when a 60 something woman stopped in front of Mom and started complaining that she was blocking the path. “This is a sidewalk,” the woman ranted. “You need to move this chair out of the way so I can pass.” While she raved her companion silently stepped around us, and the pole, and made his way past. With hands on hips and a glare on her face the woman waited while I dug in my heels, undid the brakes, swiveled the chair around, and backed it into the shop and into several displays.

Which leads me to this evening. We took a cab back from dinner. The pedals to the wheelchair came off during transport. The cab driver helped me get them back in place and wished us good night. The cabbie had missed the entrance so we were about a half a block up the street. I tried to push the wheelchair, but it wouldn’t budge. I checked to see if the tires were flat. I checked to see if something was tangled in the wheel. I tried to hoist up the back of the chair and muscle it to the doorway. Then, out of the shadows a man stepped forward. “Hold on,” he said, and bent to see what the problem was. He chucked. “I got it.” Turns out the arm rest had come out of place some how and was interfering with the wheel. He politely asked Mom to lift her arm. Fixed the armrest, tested the wheel, explained to me what had happened and waited to see that we were ready to roll. Then asked, “Can you spare some change?” That was one tip I was especially pleased to give.

Pushing a wheelchair around these past couple of days has given me a lot to consider about humans and civilization and about the true meaning of civilized human being. Mom and I didn’t stop at one San Francisco cable car ride, we took two. On the last one we road all the way to the end of the line. The brakeman/ticket taker (I’m not sure what his official title is) carried Mom’s wheelchair down for me and also gave Mom a hand stepping down. When I thanked him for his help, I nodded toward the cars he had stopped so we could get mom settled in her chair again. “We’re holding up traffic, “I said. He smiled. “That’s all right,” he said. “They can wait. One day, it could be their turn.”

Book in the Oven: Dance Y'all Dance!

One of my editors and I have joked about how creating a book is sort of like making a petri-dish baby. This is especially true of books written by one person and illustrated by another. The author part of the team begins the process by providing the egg--the text for the story. The potential parents—the editor or editorial team—sifts through art samples to find the perfect artist—sperm donor—whose talent (think DNA) when blended with the story will bring it to life. A good editor is the mid-wife who supports, coaxes, wheedles, and encourages the birthing process, ever alert for potential problems. To complete the metaphor, the publishing house is the womb where the baby will be nurtured and grow, and hopefully flourish.As you might imagine, for us egg donors, er authors, the period between selling a story and learning who has been chosen illustrator can be excruciating and worrisome; so much of a picture book’s success depends on the illustrations. I’m rethinking this whole surrogate parenting book creation idea now because I just learned who has been chosen to contribute the other half of the DNA for my next picture book. Lucy Chambers and the team at Bright Sky Press has selected Terri Murphy to illustrate my Texas Two-steppin’, night at the Dance Hall picture book, Dance Y’all, Dance! When I learned the news, I immediately Googled Terri. Since we are going to be parents, it follows that I would like to find out all I can about her, doesn’t it? Clicking onto Terri Murphy’s website felt a little sneaky and cheaty, but fun at the same time, like Internet dating (not that I’ve ever tried Internet Dating…) She not only has pictures of her art posted, she also has photos of her work areas, her life, her clutter, and a blog! It was like I was peeping in her windows—very nice windows I might add, with fabulous, fun art. Dance Y’all is a bouncy story full of colorful characters and as I click-clicked around her website, I became more and more excited that Terri was the artist who is going to bring my baby to life. Still, I kept looking over my shoulder thinking someone was going to catch me spying. But then I thought, hey, who’s to say Terri Murphy hasn’t Googled me, too? She may even be reading this note…

Not So Far

I flew from Jakarta to Taipei on Wednesday and from there on to Los Angeles—the trip took around 18 hours, but less than 5: we took off at 2:20 in the afternoon of the 14^th and landed at LAX at 7:15 that evening.

I am staying the night in an old place, one of the first in the area, well worn but tidy. The dirt between the shrubs had been raked. Like back home. Jakarta. Rohemon’s yard. The man who checked me in was old, brown, round faced. He spoke softly with Asian accented English. His movements were careful and slow, too slow for me. I was still revved up from the frenzied run through immigration and baggage. Watching him work through the on-screen computer check in, I fought an urge to reach over the counter and help him manage the computer mouse.

I asked if he had a room in the back, less noise. He smiled and waved vaguely, with a familiar look on his face, that look I got so often from Roheman and Aan. That look that says, “I want to please you, and I think I know what you are asking for, but I am really not sure.” I smiled and took the room key he offered. My room was in the front, facing the main road—figured.

When I talked with Curtis this morning, I told him the man reminded me of Indonesia.

The same man was at the counter when I went to check out. I asked him where he was from. He took a deep breath and smiled an I’ve-been-asked-this-before-and-it’s-a-long-story-smile. A familiar smile. One I give when someone asks where I’m from. “I am from the far, far East,” he said.

I nodded and smiled. “I live in Indonesia.”

He looked at me. “Indonesia. I am from Indonesia.”

Turns out he is not just from Indonesia, he is from my island, Java. From East Java, from a small village near Surabaya. I had never heard of his village, but Surabaya, yes. I have been there twice, spent the night, purchased coffee beans and glass beads and carved furniture from Surabaya.

“Selamat siang,” I said.

It was his turn to smile. “You live in Indonesia? Now?”

My whole body said yes.

He switched to Indonesian (a test?) “Berapa lama?” For how long?

“Sudah empat tahun” Already four years,” I answered.

We chatted a few minutes more, about Indonesia, why I was there. Mostly in English with a few Indo words here and there. His Indo seemed as rusty as mine is poor.

Other people came into the office. I said “goodbye”, he said “selamat jalan” and I left.

No matter how far we travel, it seems we are never that far away.

Selamat jalan, happy travels.

Pickled

These days, pickles are impossible to find in Jakarta.

Imported food has been scarce for about six months—ever since the melamine scare and subsequent recall of melamine-enhanced foods. For those of you not familiar with the melamine-milk food horror, it seems melamine— the same melamine from which the indestructible flowered tableware of my youth was made—can be, and in China was, used as a protein enhancer in milk, and products made from that milk. Brilliant idea, right? WRONG. Come to find out, the body doesn’t process melamine the way it processes the normal cow-produced milk protein. Instead, it solidifies—imagine what a plastic cup tossed into a blazing campfire looks like. And those melamine globs clog the system. Which is extremely painful and harmful to bodies—the smaller the body the more painful and harmful. Babies died, others became seriously ill from ingesting these melamine-enhanced milk products. As a result, many foods made in China, in which melamine was used—including Milky Way candy bars and M&Ms—were recalled.

What does this have to do with pickles? Well, purportedly, the Indonesian government took this scare seriously. As I understand it, (translation, what a guy I met at a party who works in the food-importing industry here, told me) is that the government is scrutinizing the labels on all imported food—case by case, can by can, jar by jar. As a result, down on the docks, warehouses are stuffed with imported food rapidly approaching their expiration dates that are in line to have their labels scrutinized, and grocery store shelves are empty—well, not exactly empty, Japanese-made products have been moved into the empty spaces and/or the few Western-import items available, think “olive oil,” have been arranged in creative designs that take up loads of shelf space.

Now, the thrilling, super agent, sneaky secret part of all of this is that apparently, if you know the right people, at the right stores, you can get some imported products. At Caswell’s Mom, a decadently expensive boutique grocery specializing in imports ( a box of All Bran $11 U.S; a can of Rotel, $5.00), the clerk slipped me a computer list as I was checking out, and instructed me to “let her know if there was anything on the list I wanted.” (She may have winked, slyly.) I confess, I took a look at the list, but declined. Not as a matter of principle. The items listed were mostly fake cheese, processed fast food, and nitrate-packed pork products. On another pre-Christmas grocery run to Ranch Market, my “usual” grocery, I was waiting to get my “free parking” pass when a sales associated asked if I had been to the “secret room” (her words). I shook my head. “What is in the secret room?” I whispered. “Things you expats like,” she said. “Imported food…alcohol...” I was tempted to take my turn in the secret room. But I was more worried this might be a sting operation or that there were hidden cameras. Besides, my bring-your-own grocery sacks bulged with freezer items and I had already called Aan to fetch me, so I said “next time.”

Curtis joined me on the pre-New Year’s run to Ranch Market and, with the shelves so empty, we had time to kill, so I told Curtis about the “secret room” and asked him if he wanted to see it.

Curtis is not usually game for shady activities. Maybe it was the absence of pickles (we had come there looking specifically for them), or our lack of a social life, but for whatever reason, Curtis agreed to join me. I flagged down a sales associate and asked about the “secret room.” She gave me a puzzled look. I rephrased the question, explaining more and including hand gestures. “You know, the room in the back…with the bule food….things from America…alcohol…” She shook her head. Either she really was totally clueless about the room or she was a well-trained sleuth. I wanted to go with “clueless” and ask another associate—Curtis went with “another one of Kelly’s imagined adventures” and pulled me to the check out lane.

So, today, Rusnati and I are making pickles. Yesterday, I sent her to the traditional market to buy 15 kilos—about 30 pounds—of cucumbers and ice. Last night, I flipped through my recipe files for my pickle recipes. Yes, I have made pickles before. But, before, I made them for fun, not out of desperation. Not with the thought in the back of my mind that, if they were good, I might be able to supplement my fun budget with proceeds from pickle sales--think small jar $5 or $6 U.S, when the stores stocked them. The 15 kilos of cucumbers had cost Rp 50,000, about $5 dollars. The bag of ice cost almost that much.

Rusnati and I commenced chopping about 10:00 this morning. I sliced the cucumbers: discs for lime pickles; lengthwise slices for sandwich-sized bread and butter pickles; spears for dill pickles. (Curtis hates, hates, dill pickles. But our friend, Alex, has been jonensing for them for some time now…I wonder how much he’s willing to pay for a jar?) Rusnati chopped the stinky stuff—onions, peppers, and chilies.

Aan is in on the pickle-making project, too. His job: find canning jars. I gave him two examples: one pint-sized jar and one quart jar. I gave him explicit instructions to find “exactly the same kind,” and to call—before he bought—if he has any questions. He left at 9:47. It is now 3:45 in the afternoon. He has called 3 times: once to ask if the same jars, in a different brand name were okay. “Do they have the two-part lid?” I asked. “I need the one flat, round disk that fits on the top and the other, ring that twists around. “Yes, he assured me.” The lids have 2 parts…but they only have the large size jar.” “Fine, great!” I assured him. The next call was from another store. They had jars, but the top was different. “Do they have two-part lids, like the other ones?” I asked. “The neck is different shaped,” Aan answered. “But, do they have the two-part lids?” I asked again. “The lids are only one part and the top is shaped differently,” he responded. The third call came about 30 minutes ago. Aan had been to several other stores--he listed them all--and no luck. “Could he go to these other stores?” he asked, listing more, very far away stores. “Was Mrs. Going anywhere today?” “Don’t worry about me,” I said, “go and find the jars. Good luck!” Aan laughed, “Good luck”…

As the cucumbers are cut, the ends and not-good-for-pickles pieces go into the relish bowl. I’d made relish before too, but not the Indonesian way. Relish is made from these cucumber left overs mixed with onion and peppers—either sweet or hot—all of which is chopped to bits, teeny-tiny bits. I had a lot of time to think about that teeny-tiny bits bit while chopping all those bits. About 10 minutes into the chopping, after having tried and failed at using the blender and nut chopper to mince the veggies, I decided that I am not a big fan of the Indonesian way. Mincing vegetables by hand is a time-consuming, repetitive motion injury waiting to happen.

Once minced, relish bits have to marinade in brine for at least an hour. (Pickles marinade longer: overnight for some, 4-6 hours for others, and longer.)

As I write, the timer is ticking away. It is set to go off 30 minutes from now. Then it will be time for the next phase of relish making: draining, cooking, jarring and sealing the relish made from those teensy-weensy, teeny-tiny bits. Hmmmm if you think about the time and energy we will expend on in this relish, let alone the pickles…maybe $5 per jar is not out of line.

As for the pickles, there are 5 enormous bowls of precisely sliced, marinating cukes waiting, wanting, willing to become pickles and relish. However, what happens next all depends on Aan… Are there jars in that “secret room”? Or on the “special products” list? Or are they stacked in some dock warehouse waiting to be checked for melamine?

Fall School Visits--Texas and Oklahoma, Sept. 2008

I had a grand time visiting schools in Texas and Oklahoma this September. Not Norman, my flip-floppy, fun picture book goldfish made a big splash! Here are some photos taken at the schools.

Hello world!

On this, the first day of 2009, it feels right to begin something new, something a little scary, but exciting--a fitting step into the year and to this blog.  Happy 2009! Welcome to my world. For almost 4 years now, I have been sharing slices of my life with family and friends. So, to them, the life Curtis and I share in Jakarta with our maid, Rusnati, her husband, Roheman--also our gardener, Aan, our driver, Warjo the pool man, and a pond stocked with monster fish--currently on probation, is familiar. But those of you just tuning in may need some catching up.  However, if there is one thing I did learn while earning a Master's Degree in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts (like how I slipped that in?) it is that back-story is like cod liver oil, a little of it goes a long way and it's best if you sneak it into something...so for now, let’s begin with last Friday.

Last Friday, the last Friday of 2008, Rohemon's Ibu, his mother, passed away. She was overweight but not unhealthy, so it came as a shock. Ibu had suffered what we think is a heart attack the week before. I write "we think" because I am not exactly positive what was wrong with her. Rusnati had called me late that night to tell me Ibu Roheman was in the rumah sakit, the hospital, so she , Roheman, and their youngest daughter, Andrea, were leaving to return to their village, 3 hours from Jakarta, right away..."if it was all right with me." Of course I said it was all right. I also told her that we could manage fine and not to think she had to rush back to Jakarta, and to let me know if she/they needed anything. 

Rusnati and I communicate using our own peculiar blend of Indonesian mixed with English, sign language, and lots of repetition, which means we do a lot of smiling and nodding, guessing and waiting as the meaning of what the other is trying to convey becomes clear...clearer. But telephone conversations are a serious handicap to that process, especially when one of the parties is struggling to maintain. In Indonesian, hati means “heart.” Hati-hati means “be careful,” as in whatever might happen could be so scary to you or me that someone’s heart will stop. Originally though and sometimes now, hati also means “liver,” so you can see why I am unsure. During the course of the conversation, I had intended to ask if Rohemon's mother was "sudah meningal" which means "already dead." The answer Rusnati gave was strange, which, while reflecting on it later, may not have been so strange. I suspect that I may have misspoken and actually asked if Ibu was "sudah menikah" which means "already married," instead. As a result, I hung up not entirely sure about Ibu Rohemon's condition. What I did know though, was that I could manage for a few days without Rusnati's help, even though the next day, Saturday, was KampungKids’ day, as she had stressed several times.

KampungKids is a yayasan, a non-profit organization, which supports the needy people in the kampung, neighborhood, near our home. KampungKids has various programs including daycare and tutoring for children of poor families, school scholarship programs and elder care. As part of KampungKids, we provide lunch 1 day a week for 50 malnourished children, which means we make a giant pot of soup and some other type of side dish, hardboiled eggs, fish or chicken nuggets, or fruit, and deliver it to the center. The students go to the center to eat lunch before or after their school session begins. Preparing lunch is a task in which everyone in our household takes part: We fund lunches, Rusnati cooks them, Roheman carries the food to the car, Aan drives it to the center. And, because Rusnati is the most precise vegetable cutter in the world, lunch takes 2 days to prepare. She shops, cleans and cuts veggies and cooks eggs or meat of Friday, and makes the soup, etc. Saturday morning, for a 10:30 a.m. delivery. So it is no wonder Rusnati was worried about it--about me (she doesn’t know I once had a cookbook titled “Food for Fifty.”)

Early Saturday morning, way early, before the birds, I jumped out of bed and, still in my nightie, raced into the kitchen to get the soup going. I yanked open the kitchen door and almost jumped out of my skin. Two women were squatting on my kitchen floor chopping vegetables. I forced a smile and willed myself to smile and act normal.

"Oh hi!" I said, rubbing my eyes, trying to focus and wondering if I had bothered to remove my make up the night before or if it was smeared all over my face along with eye goop and dried drool.  The women were Lia, Rusnati's 21 year old daughter, and Onie, the across-the-street maid. In the midst of all she had to worry about the night before, Rusnati had secured their help in preparing the KampungKids lunch. After it was delivered, Onie and Lia washed up and set off for their respective jobs, Onie to the house across the street, Lia to her office, without saying a word, without expecting a word of thanks or payment of any kind.

In the hierarchy of Jakarta staff, driver is the best job, followed by head of staff, often the cook, then maid, then nanny, then gardener. As a driver, Aan’s domain is the car and garage. When he is not driving the car, he is washing the car, chatting with other drivers near the car, sleeping in the car, or sitting in the garage with the car. I had considered asking him to water the front yard—instead of sitting—but didn’t want to impose. I couldn’t very well go out and water with him sitting there in the garage, watching me, either. So I planned to wait until he left to pick Curtis up from work and then water. Around 3:00, I went out to tell him I didn’t need him any more and he could head to the office to wait for Curtis. “I’ll water the plants, first,” he said. “Then go to the office.”

That evening, Lia and her sister, Linda, were back. On Monday, Suharti, Rusnati’s sister arrived. Suharti works for our friends Joy and Mike. She is their maid, with a bigger house than ours, a cat and dog, to maintain. Although Suharti is not familiar with our house, she scrubbed and cleaned, washed and ironed.

That is how it has been ever since. Suharti is splitting her time between Joy’s home and ours, stepping in for her sister. Onie is helping her with the laundry. Lia comes and goes like the afternoon breeze. Likewise, in the yard, Aan and Warjo, the pool cleaner, have taken over Rohemon’s work. Aan waters and Warjo, with 2 other yards and pools to care for, makes time to sweep and water and clean our backyard.

It’s not about me and Curtis, or our comfort, although we reap the benefits. It is for Rusnati and Roheman. It is the Indonesian way. Suharti, Lia, Warjo, Onie and Aan, give what they can. In this time of need, in support of their family, friends, coworkers, they give their time.